


on to whatever awaits

by erzi



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27790201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erzi/pseuds/erzi
Summary: He'll never lead a normal life. There is no job he can hold that would last, not while the Book retains pages; and with every page torn away, the message of Natsume's power is spread. Doubtless it always will be that way.Is there no way to broker peace between the two worlds he inhabits? Is exorcism the only way to cross that, and to cross it so heartlessly?
Comments: 12
Kudos: 43
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	on to whatever awaits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [backontheground](https://archiveofourown.org/users/backontheground/gifts).



The first career plan paper that Natsume completes makes him think. The future is a tense, intangible as the dreams it's spun from. But slowly as the Earth goes around the sun, it will eventually become the present, and what becomes _now_ is undeniable. Out of consideration for the self he will be, he thinks of the future. 

Good as his intent may be, they are mere thoughts: things unrealized, impossible to hold.

  
  


The second career plan paper brings a slight urgency to the beat of his heart. Hanging halfway between the beginning and the end of high school, between the human and the youkai realms, and still not steady on his path or even knowing where it leads—it worries him. 

Touko-san is all smiles ( _It'll come to you; you can't rush the rest of your life with one hasty decision_ , she says in her constant reassurances) and Shigeru-san echoes her in his quiet ways. Their intentions are good—when aren't they?—but he's not just a teenager lost in the dawning of how far the world truly stretches. The cursed gift that is his otherworldly power opens his eyes and simultaneously narrows who he can be.

The Book of Friends burns a hole in the bottom of his bag. It's not scribbled with his thoughts, or messages from friends who wish him well, but with someone else's memories in the form of many names.

Natsume carefully flips through the Book, reading hundreds of penmanships: curves and angles, thick strokes and dainty lines. He can tell by touch that the Book is thinner. The nights spent leafing through it have engraved its edges into him, familiar as the lines etched on his palms, and he knows the Book is thinner. The days he has spent with youkai to return them themselves are proof too of what the Book has lost.

"Sensei," he says, closing the Book to look at him.

Nyanko-sensei, stretched stomach-up on a pillow, flicks an ear in cognizance. And nothing else.

Natsume frowns. " _Sensei_ ," he repeats, grabbing at Nyanko-sensei's pudge.

Nyanko-sensei yelps, stubby legs flailing. "Gah! I heard you, I heard you! Don't do that!" With an old man's grunt, he flips himself over, curling his paws under himself. "What?"

The question is so direct and yet means so little. Natsume blinks, realizing he hadn't been certain of his question. It's more an intimation curling around something he can't articulate. He looks at the Book again. The sight of it nudges his feelings to a specter of their sum: "How long do you think I'll have the Book of Friends?"

"Hopefully not very long. Otherwise, I'll be annoyed. I have things I want to do other than wait for you to kick the bucket." 

Natsume lightly pinches him, getting an annoyed meow in reply. 

The names written on the Book have a dual life: one for the youkai they pertain to, and one for the human girl who could have spoken them and never did. Then she had died, the names disused, the memories of their giving carried by those who could live forever. She had died as the names had not, but as the youkai had never been summoned, they might as well have died. 

If true death is the last time one's name is said, what are the youkai Reiko left behind? They aren't alive to begin with. Neither are they dead. Perhaps their unclaimed names also exist in that tenuousness.

Natsume traces down the Book's cover, finger pulled like the weight of his heart sinking to his stomach, acid splashing up to coat the back of his throat.

  
  


And the third career paper—the last of them, the prelude to a diploma, itself one of possibly more—the third career paper mocks him with its empty creaminess. The printed words are stark, grain by blackened grain; the response boxes wait for the scratch of his pencil. They have been waiting for a week after being hastily tossed to the bottom of Natsume's book bag, more carefully filed into a folder, laid flat on his desk, thrown back into the bag, and now placed on this café's table.

He'd thought the change of place would shake him from his constraints; that he'd think of something other than the youkai that always find him, inadvertently pulling him into—

Adventures? No; he's not a child, exploring the world his imagination grants him (and how that world far exceeds what any child, blind to the richness of the youkai, could create). Nor is it trouble, not always. He has been cut; he has been hunted; he has fallen from the sky. And he has been given esoteric herbs for healing; he has been offered cold hands but warm smiles; he has been chased in hide-and-seek where no human but him could do the seeking; he has been flown through clouds and pulled to festivals and, and, and.

Whatever his interactions with youkai are, they have brought him here; they have made him thus: kinder, but not necessarily softer. 

He reaches for his coffee, sipping, and almost spits it out when he hears a twinkling, unexpected _Natsume!_

Natori glides, unasked, into the booth across from Natsume. He ignores the disbelieving stares from the other patrons and smiles at Natsume. "Would you look at that! I was in the area for a job and thought to stop here for a quick bite. Where's that cat of yours?"

"Hello, Natori-san," he says. "Sensei's not with me today. He's sleeping off a hangover."

Natori laughs. "Some guardian he is." With minimal effort, he catches a waitress's attention and makes his order. As she leaves, he asks Natsume, "What are you doing, studying?"

Natsume pulls the paper close to him, hand covering the title, its questions, and its empty answers as if they're secrets. He opens his mouth, a lie ready at the tip of his tongue. There it dies. He sighs, moving his hand. "Trying to fill out my career plans, but I can't think of anything," he admits, quietly, as if it's any louder it will further chase away the things he could be if only he tried harder.

Natori veneers himself so often that Natsume thinks he doesn't realize his gloss is false. Now, Natori loses some of it, expression pensive and honest. "Career plans, huh?" His eyes drift to a corner. "I remember doing that."

Natsume taps the pencil to the paper, its eraser bouncing. "Did you always want to be an actor, Natori-san?"

"Hmm, not really. It just kind of happened. And I'm not bad at it, so."

Natsume briefly purses his lips. "What about being an exorcist?"

Natori's genuineness is lost as he slides on an actor's smile. "What a forward question! Oh, thank you," he adds as the waitress drops off his food. 

"Could I have your autograph, Natori-san?" she asks, clutching her platter to her chest.

The smile gets cast to her. "Of course!" he says, withdrawing a pen and paper from inside his jacket—nothing imbued with magic; the paper is as plain as the one in front of Natsume. He flourishes his name and hands it to the waitress, who happily takes it. He turns to Natsume. "What career did you put for the last few papers?"

Natsume frowns, setting the pencil flat on the paper. "Natori-san, you're avoiding my question."

"Ahaha," he says. He doesn't _laugh_ it; he says it. "You don't want to be an exorcist, though, do you?"

Still with evasions, questions swung back at who asks them. If Natori won't talk about it, it's fine. Maybe it's weird—he's the older one, the one who's lived this life longer than Natsume has—but Natsume knows well what it is like to be prodded when one's skin remains tender. He won't do it to anyone.

"No, I don't want to be one," Natsume says. "I was curious." 

"Good." Natori stabs a forkful of his food. "You shouldn't delve into this world any deeper."

"I don't agree with how the exorcists work, anyway."

The smile Natori gives him would fool anyone else; they would relate it to the glittering persona they see on the silver screen. But Natsume, who's seen him in backdrops of nature and that beyond it, with no roles to play but life itself exposed to its marrow—Natsume is not fooled. That smile carries pity with the subtle condescension of a bitter expert who hears the dreamer before they meet reality. 

There are youkai who would harm people. But there are also youkai who are curious about them; who watch fascinated from afar; who come close in distance and even relationship. Bad and good youkai, same as humans. 

And none of the exorcists question what to do about themselves, do they? No, what concerns them is not morality. It's their survival. Thriving for centuries to reach their dwindling present has made exorcists' greatest fear their extinction. That they would be gone instead of what they dedicate themselves to eliminating.

"Natori-san," Natsume slowly says, "what will you do if no one else joins your clan?"

"You're asking all sorts of questions today, aren't you, Natsume?" The smile doesn't reach his eyes. And then his eyes don't reach Natsume; they focus out the window. "I suppose… that would be that. If I reach that point, I've already lost."

The Natori clan has learned formidable knowledge over time, passed on faithfully to its sons. Because they have made their life with paper, there must be scores of Natori-penned scrolls and books, dusted and crumbling. Natsume thinks of that ending with Natori and feels an unfathomable sadness.

The Natoris are one clan, Natsume's sympathy brightest because he knows their last flame. One clan out of hundreds that have been lost, names excluded from history, lives richly experienced remembered by none, because all who could have possibly held on to those memories are gone, too.

It would be lonely if no Natori, by blood or pact, continued the legacy they've crafted. And it would be lonely if the youkai Reiko had befriended in her own wild way never had closure. Natsume can't be Reiko for them, but in being himself, he can be something less crude than what Reiko's youkai interactions cut her with. He can be something more: the true friend the Book has inked on its cover. Exorcism plays counter to his beliefs. He doesn't want to kill the youkai. Merely understand them.

The weight of the Book of Friends in Natsume's bag seems to increase, dipping the seat down. He reaches a hand to hold it in place, not to keep it from falling—it isn't really—but to be assured it's close to him. Natori, lost in thought, misses the motion. Natsume is thankful for it. Had he noticed, he'd have given Natsume that same smile meant to be politely understanding that in truth does nothing to hide Natori's self-perceived maturity. 

The Book is hefty even after so many of its names have been returned, but even those are an insignificance for the youkai the world teems with. How many of them are unknown? And how many were known, once, only to have been lost in the same crannies as once-prosperous clans?

The Natori clan's endurance rests in their last scion; for Reiko's subjugated youkai, it's up to Natsume. Someone must remember. To live isn't a singular thing—that, instead, is death. Life is dependent on others' witnessing. Even when a name being spoken will not be heeded by who it belongs to, that someone knows it and thus can speak it—that's life, in its own way.

"But," Natori suddenly says, and the sound cuts through Natsume's introspection, startling him. "But I won't let myself be the last Natori. I'll figure something out." He says it more to himself—lowly, but fiercely; like a personal promise. He brightens, forcefully, the sun clawing its way out of thunderclouds. "You didn't tell me what careers you'd gone with the other times."

 _And you didn't tell me if you always wanted to be an exorcist, Natori-san_ , Natsume thinks, not cruel enough to voice it. 

"Surely you must have put some effort into those?" Natori says after pausing to eat. "Why not write the same thing? It's not like what you write down is what has to happen."

"I did think about it then, but my old answers don't feel right now."

"Have you even been preparing for the university entrance exam?"

Natsume sinks a bit in his seat. "No…" He straightens. "But that's because I don't know what I want to be. Touko-san and Shigeru-san say it's okay to wait it out."

"They're right," Natori says, giving another genuine smile—but it's fleeting. "You're lucky to have such an understanding family."

Pleasant warmth seeps its way from Natsume's heart to the whole of him. It's been three years since the Fujiwaras took him in. A blink, in the span of life; but for all they have given him, it's been enough to deem their house _home_. He hasn't been bold enough to sum them as family, so to hear it by another—it's like the summer in his name has settled under his skin, making it a home of its own. 

As Natsume sees past the rosiness in his periphery, there is envy in the afterimage of Natori's smile.

"You know," Natori idly says, "it's not my place to tell you what you should be, but I think you're good at helping others. And you like doing it, too. Maybe consider something like that?"

Natsume thinks of people whose duty it is to help: doctors, teachers, firefighters. He briefly pictures himself in each role, but it's as if he's thinking of someone who wears his face and is not him. 

But its base truth—helping others—that feels _right_. Natori has said it and it reminds Natsume of all he's done for his friends, human and youkai alike. 

Natsume writes a single stroke on the paper, a stroke that could belong to any character. "I'll think about it," he says, having hoped that single stroke would make others flow of their own accord to the page, the answer found without his thinking. No such luck.

"You can always talk to me, if you like," Natori says, dazzling like a camera wants him to be.

That he'd offer is considerate, but sometimes Natori doesn't seem to know what he wants himself. _He's probably not my best option_ , Natsume thinks, smiling. He still thanks him, still wishes him a good day when Natori leaves. 

What stubbornly remains is the paper's blankness. It's due tomorrow, and none of the things he's thought of or talked about have manifested themselves cleanly into an answer. He must put _something_ down.

Squinting, like if he can't discern if the paper is real, Natsume scribbles 'teacher.' He doesn't believe it, but it will appease his own teacher. It'll mean a conversation with him, too—what better mentor for one's future than someone who has made it their present?—but it's fine to lie about this much, surely. No one is being harmed. This is to fulfill an assignment, a box to tick off in what is expected of him in this countdown to a future too open-ended for his comfort. 

* * *

"This," his homeroom teacher says, the career paper in his hand, "is quite the change from last year, Natsume-kun."

"Yes, sir," Natsume says, demure. His hands are stuffed in his pockets; his eyes are on the tile floor.

His teacher hums—not accusingly, but not very believing. "What would you want to teach?"

Outside, the trees rustle in a sudden breeze, whispering nothing, an echo of the nothingness that blooms in Natsume's mind.

He should have expected this question; foolish of him to not have planned accordingly, because the longer he delays, the more obvious it becomes this is not where his heart is; it was only something to write down—

Writing. The Book of Friends, inked with hundreds of names. Names returned, names forgotten. Writing not to forget.

The string of rapid thoughts tangles on itself, but in the knots they make he glimpses an answer. 

"History," he says, and the string immediately tauts itself out, frayed only where it had fought itself. "I want to be a history teacher."

It's a lie. But there's something about it that hurts less to say.

"History? Any particular reason?"

"There are some things that shouldn't be forgotten."

And that— that is not a lie. 

His answer pleases his teacher. Likely because it hadn't been born glibly or shallowly. It had risen from deep in his gut, teased out at what forms before him: human history, recited in schools as collective memory; youkai history, exorcised as those who comprise it are. And there is him, pressing an ear to each of them. 

They discuss possible universities. Where in the other counselings the mention of the university entrance exam had been a force veiled as a suggestion, this time—the last time—there is no room for misinterpretation. 

"Prepare for the exam," he is told. "I understand you haven't attended cram school, but with enough self-study, there's hope for you yet."

Natsume nods, murmuring deferments as needed. This is no place to make his stand; the sooner he can leave, the better.

When their meeting is over, it doesn't stop from repeating itself in Natsume's head. The realization that he's nearly through with school sweeps him at once, leaving him breathless. This is it, and he's been much too lax about it, softened by too-kind words from too-kind people who don't and can't know the duplicity in him.

He'll never lead a normal life. There is no job he can hold that would last, not while the Book retains pages; and with every page torn away, the message of Natsume's power is spread. Doubtless it always will be that way. 

Is there no way to broker peace between the two worlds he inhabits? Is exorcism the only way to cross that, and to cross it so heartlessly?

As he walks, his book bag bumps his knee, the bony shape of the Book prodding him, and it smothers his thoughts. 

Reiko had been even more of an outsider to the exorcists' world. The Book itself, taboo wrapped in paper, is the proof she had no education on the supernatural except what she fought out herself. Scraped out in bruises and cuts, in nights away from a house that wasn't home, in days spent uncaring for the whispers made in her presence because no one else could see her conversations with the air were not one-sided. If Reiko had found something for herself, however modest, then so can Natsume. The same blood beats in their hearts; the same book is in his hands. But his life is not hers. He will learn from the best of her and make it his own, a bit at a time. To do nothing when he has this power would be a shame, wouldn't it?

His steps are surer.

* * *

Natsume's name rings proudly in the gym, picked up by every set of ears in attendance. He stands, pressed black uniform rippling, the movement catching the audience's eyes. Most are politely attentive for this next student called to receive their diploma, but some of those eyes land softly on him. They know him, those eyes, and they watch him walk to the stage, bow to the principal, extend his hands, and receive his diploma. Another bow to the crowd, classmates and friends and strangers and families gathered. And then he descends the steps, the rite completed for him, repeated for the next student, on and on until the entirety of his class has graduated.

He glances at his diploma. _I've graduated_. A collection of meaningless sounds. He thinks it but feels nothing.

He changes the narrative: _I've finished high school, and I don't know what's next._

He's sitting, but his kneecaps lock and his breath gets trapped in his throat.

The old gym doors are opened, the squeak barely above the growing conversations, but Natsume hears it. He quickly turns his head, watching the sunlight stream in, a few cherry blossom petals straying inside from the breeze that tugs them free. The crowd goes to the open doors, the composure held inside the gym buzzing outside to joy and sorrow at last goodbyes.

Natsume lingers. As if staying here will delay whatever is next.

"Natsume!" he hears. 

He snaps his head up. 

It's Nishimura. He's out the doors, waving like his carrying voice hadn't been enough. Everyone who Natsume cares about is behind him, smiling expectantly.

A smile finds its way on his own face—a small one, not having done away with some of his anxiety, but it's something. He goes to them.

His friends know what they want to be; they long have. Molded by their parents or who they admire or simply having found themselves through life's tribulations. They've just stepped out of the high school gym but already Nishimura's chattering is interrupted by Kitamoto prodding at his logic, to Tanuma and Taki and Sasada's mirth. They're all comfortable, all at ease with the papers they've each been given.

 _Then there's me_ , Natsume thinks, fingers slightly tighter around the diploma.

He's proud of his friends for their confidence. But it doesn't mean there's not some jealousy in that.

"Natsume?" he hears again, but concerned—and from Tanuma.

"Yes?" he asks.

"You seem somewhat distraught is all." Tanuma's smile is tentative. "That's understandable, though."

Natsume does not like talking about himself or his worries, a product of the life that's led him by the scruff of his neck. Here in Kumamoto, here with the Fujiwaras and the friends he's made, he's made away with some of that unfounded fear of having his heart known. It hasn't made him bear it in full, but he has improved how much he is willing to show. His friends have been aware of his indecision. 

Natsume smiles back. "I'm alright. I was just thinking."

"It's hard to believe, isn't it?" Taki says. "We're here already. Where did the time go?"

"Aw, don't sound like an old man!" Nishimura whines. "High school is ending but the rest of our lives are beginning!"

"And _you_ ," Kitamoto says, nudging Nishimura, "don't go sounding like a bad motivational speaker."

"But it's true!" Nishimura looks between them all. "It's not like we're gonna lose contact with each other? We're in modern times with cell phones. We may be parting ways, but that doesn't stop friendships!" He whips out his phone. "Can we make sure we have everyone's info right?"

They gather in a circle, phones in a ring at the center, multiple conversations overlapping. Natsume briefly looks away and sees similar scenes for everyone else he'd gone to school with, these farewell odes to who they used to be—who they thought they'd always be—that time will gently change, but who will always remain connected to others from their past if they tend what binds them. And when they say what needs to be said, they go to their families, to parents glowing with pride and joy. People whose presences are stalwart.

From the corner of his eye he catches a familiar shade of brown, fluttering in the breeze. He fully regards it.

Touko-san and Shigeru-san are standing by the entrance gate, respectfully maintaining their distance as he talks to his friends. But their smiles are like any parent's, and how they wrinkle the corners of their finely-aged eyes when they see Natsume has noticed them.

The smile that stretches on Natsume's face is the most natural thing in the world.

Everyone's info on everyone's phones matches up, and for a moment no one moves, not wanting to be the first to break it, to signify the end of things. Sasada shuffles her feet, Tanuma clears his throat, Kitamoto rubs his neck.

"Oh, c'mon on, you guys!" Taki says, balling her hands to fists. "So gloomy! Nishimura is right; nothing is ending. We'll be okay." She flings an arm around Tanuma and Sasada's necks, who flank her. "Group hug?" 

"Group hug!" Nishimura says, his arms around Kitamoto and Sasada. 

Someone laughs, and then they're all laughing, pulling the persons next to them, closer together.

Then Nishimura's mom calls him, and with a promise they'll talk soon, he disentangles himself and jogs to his family. That breaks the spell—everyone goes to their own families, turning their backs on the end of an era. 

Natsume already knows which direction to go.

"We're so proud of you, Takashi-kun!" Touko-san says, holding Natsume's hands between hers, bobbing them. "In the three years you've been with us, you've changed a lot, and—" She pauses, a waver in her voice, the brightness glittering in her eyes trickling.

Seeing her cry, and cry because of him, makes the wistful melancholy that had tinged Natsume condense in his throat.

"Ah, I'm sorry, Takashi-kun," Touko-san says, accepting a handkerchief Shigeru-san hands her and dabbing her eyes. "It's just… you've become such a fine, confident young man. You let us into your heart and have made our lives such a blessing. The boy that you were when you came to live with us isn't the boy who just received his diploma, but I think he was important in bringing about that change. We're very thankful to him for that."

"We are," Shigeru-san agrees, "and we cherish him as much as the you that you've become."

She folds the handkerchief to her pocket. "But how do _you_ feel?"

With what they've said, he's not even sure how to say it. Happy, definitely. Maybe relieved, to hear them say what anyone hopes to hear from their guardians. "I'm… proud of myself, too," he says, self-praise strange on his tongue, but it's true. Something lifts off him, being able to talk well of himself. 

But that's not enough. Three years is over a thousand days, and there are multiple memories within each of those days, a total innumerable amount. The Fujiwaras take up a large portion of those memories. If they've been this compassionate and direct to him, he should reciprocate.

"And," he says, taking Touko-san's hands in his, "I'm really happy you were the ones who took me in." For once he doesn't consider what he is saying, simply letting his heart guide the way. He looks at their hands, unable to meet their eyes when being forthright. "You're both very important to me. I don't think I thank you enough for what you do for me daily, or what you have done for me these last few years. You know when to listen or leave me be. You've never stopped believing that I would be a better version of myself, even if it would take time." 

Now he looks up, he must, and the Fujiwaras are stricken with surprise; Touko-san's mouth is rounded in a silent gasp. 

Natsume continues. "Touko-san, Shigeru-san. In three years you've done more for me than anyone has in my entire life." He tells himself not to bow because these aren't polite pleasantries. This is him, plainly. A little pink at his cheeks, yes, but this is him, and this is him hoping his hands holding Touko-san's do not shake as he meets the Fujiwaras' gazes evenly, saying, "Thank you."

Touko-san's gasp is realized. "Takashi-kun, you'll make me cry more," she says through a watery smile.

Shigeru-san rests a hand on her shoulder. "I know I speak for both of us," he says, "that hearing you say that makes us overjoyed. But, you know, you don't need to be formal." His hand moves to pat the top of Natsume's head. "We've long considered you family."

The spring breeze picks up that word and weaves it through fresh leaf and bud. _Family_ , as distant a concept as the future. But here Shigeru-san has taken it for certainty. For the present. One including Natsume.

The warmth on Natsume's cheeks pulses to his chest, gentle as anything.

Family. He'd never dared think of the Fujiwaras as such, as if it'd be an insult to them. As if one day they'd see how broken he is and send him on his way, like everyone else did. Better to be hopeless than dream too vividly and find the world gray.

Here is the word itself from the Fujiwaras. _Family_. Finally, at last.

"Takashi-kun," Touko-san says, ebbing Natsume from his free-floating, "would it be alright if I hugged you?"

Family, and so they know him. He may be more at ease within his own bones but they're not yet a perfect fit. He nods, a bit afraid to speak and hear how his voice would sound.

And this is Touko-san pulling Natsume into a hug so tight that he puffs out air.

"We're _so_ proud," she says again—thickly, through tears that will spill from Natsume himself soon, if he doesn't take a moment for himself. She stretches her arms out to look at Natsume like he's her own son.

"And we want to remind you," Shigeru-san adds, "that, contrary to what your peers might feel, there's no rush for you to decide what next to do with your life." He smiles. "We don't think you're the kind of boy who'd follow the path everyone else walks simply because it's what everyone is doing, but we want to be direct about it. You shouldn't base the rest of your life on one decision you felt forced to make. We want your certainty in yourself to come from your heart."

The Fujiwaras were strangers, once. Now it's unthinkable they were ever _not_ there. The safety of their words falls snugly as a blanket on Natsume. For the love they've shown him, he'll fight for them. Whatever monster may seek him out, if the Fujiwaras are alright, then he is too. Protecting who he loves—that's not anything to make a life of, but it's his most basic resolve.

In the breeze, in the leaves it bothers, he thinks he hears the flickering pages of a book.

"If it'd be alright with you," Touko-san says, his distracted thoughts flitting from his grasp, "we'd like to go on a trip! As a congratulations to your graduation, and also for your well-deserved relaxation. It's nowhere very fancy, but we hope you'll like it anyway, if you should want to go."

"Ah," he says, involuntarily. Gathering himself, smiling true, the voice that used to whisper of his undeserved everything gone, gone, gone, he says, "That's alright with me. I'd really like that."

The Fujiwaras somehow radiate even more joy. 

If they hadn't taken him in, they'd have no one in the next generation to carry on their memories: they would have lived and they would have died, gone and barely there in the cosmic view of things. But with Natsume in their lives, the Fujiwaras' own are extended. Even when they're gone in body, they won't be in memory.

Behind a tree, movement: a hand beckons him, wearing a kimono sleeve too loose for its slender arm. Its presence is ignored by everyone.

A youkai, then. Bold of it to be here.

"Let's go home, shall we?" Shigeru-san says, placing a hand to the small of Touko-san's back and the other on Natsume's shoulder.

"Actually," Natsume blurts, hoping a lie will occur to him now, as they always used to in the self he presented to the Fujiwaras. One does, and he swallows down the guilt. "I'd like to say my proper goodbyes to the school before that. I'll meet you back home."

They nod, understandingly.

Looking left and right to ensure no one is nearby to hear him talk to what appears is nothing, Natsume briskly walks to the hand behind the tree. He relaxes as he sees the youkai is Hiiragi.

"Congratulations on finishing your human studies, Natsume," she says.

A little laugh escapes him at what she calls it. "Thank you, Hiiragi. Did you come all the way here to tell me that, or is Natori-san around?" He peers about, wary at Natori showing up somewhere Natsume publically inhabits.

"He couldn't be here due to work, so he sent me. He also sends his congratulations, and bade me to remind you that he is glad to help in any way he can." She tilts her head aside, and despite the mask, Natsume can feel the inquisitiveness of her gaze, amplified by the painted-on eye that never moves, that always covers her. "Are you really so unsure of your future?"

"I am. But how does that surprise you?" 

"I know that you will never be an exorcist," Hiiragi says, sounding like a prophecy; so sure she is. "You're too soft for what I have seen my master do. But I do not think that is a bad thing. What you care for, you care for deeply. I thought you'd continue to do so."

He blinks. "I mean— yes. The things I love won't change because I've graduated high school. But that's not a job. Protecting what's important to me isn't work, it's just… part of my life."

"Oh," she says. That she has no counterargument, but simply accepts Natsume's words as the truth, inexplicably hurts.

But what he'd said is the truth. Isn't it?

He folds his arms as if to stave away the cold. "Please thank Natori-san for me. Even if he couldn't come, he thought of me, and that's kind of him."

She nods. "I'll be seeing you, Natsume," she says, disappearing in a gust of smoke no one but him sees. Only in its consequences—a tiny swirl of dust and cherry blossoms—could anyone else tell something had happened by.

He looks absently at that swirl, but not seeing it. He lifts himself from his haze with a series of rapid blinks, and by jogging catches up to the Fujiwaras.

In their walk home, talking of everything in the easy nothings they exchange, there is peace. A peace so pleasant it lulls Natsume's mind away, and he remembers Hiiragi's comment. His own reply.

What he loves, what he does freely, is recognizing he has treasures and wanting them preserved. Selfish needs, but they make him happy. He is cognizant of where he finds his happiness and he will not let that go.

But to make a life out of it? How? Can it be done? The surest way to protect the people important to him is by exorcising the youkai that would do them harm, but Hiiragi is right: it's the one thing Natsume won't do. There are youkai important to him, and just as bad people do not take away from the good, there are bad youkai that should not warrant the hatred toward the good ones.

Maybe if people base their livelihoods around youkai's vanquishing, it's also possible to save them. 

And it feels like the missing piece of a puzzle he hadn't realized laid before him clicks into place. A perfect picture is formed, a sense of comprehending his place in the world.

Few people remain who can see beyond mortal mundanity. Fewer people yet share Natsume's view. If this is what he can do, and if this is what he wants to do, he should do it. 

_But how?_ he wonders, drawing his bottom lip in. He'd be alone in that endeavor. The exorcist clans are wisps of the forces they used to be, but at least they are established; they have connections. Natsume would have to make them on his own. 

Well. When hasn't he needed to rely on himself first and foremost?

He keeps the thought tucked away, returning to Touko-san and Shigeru-san's trip chattering. Right now, this is what matters.

* * *

Natsume is no stranger to forests. His feet have tread—and often tripped—over roots and hills, moss and stones. It's where vestiges of the power he has fervently cling to, and so it is where he is often summoned.

Here he is, by his own will.

"Watch your step, Touko-san," he says, offering her a hand from the stone step above her.

She takes it. "Thank you, Takashi-kun. It's more slippery than I thought it'd be!"

"I'm sure part of it is the fog," Shigeru-san says, studying how it wraps around trees tall enough to blot out the sun. 

Scarcely any light makes its way down to the forest floor, thickly hushed, guarded by weathered stone lanterns; together with the fog's whiteness and the trees' lushness, it seems not of this world. The youkai that peek behind trees or lounge on high branches certainly add to it. Natsume avoids looking at them, lest the youkai, stunned to be perceived, flee and perturb the solemnness in ways that shouldn't be. This trip will be peaceful.

The walk up the steep incline is long, and they spend it in amiable silence, admiring the architecture tended by nature and man. Occasionally Touko-san will point out something she likes or finds interesting, but in the longer lapses of quiet, Natsume almost forgets this is the world the Fujiwaras also inhabit.

The steps flatten where they sweep into the shrine proper. A few people are here. No one but Natsume notices the youkai—though there are not many here, in the sight of men where once stood gods. They seem content, at least, knowing this bit of land is theirs.

Shigeru-san photographs; Touko-san approaches Natsume.

"It's humbling, don't you think?" she asks in a whisper. "There's a lot of history here, hidden away…"

"It's nice."

From his backpack, Nyanko-sensei meows.

She smiles. "You seem to really like our neighboring forests, so we thought you'd like coming to this entirely new one. And much more awe-inspiring, too, since it's leading to a shrine!" She peers up, through thin gaps in the canopy. "It's a very thoughtful place."

Out of habit, Natsume follows her line of sight. A youkai with a holy face and a crow's wings perches on a branch, indifferent to the happenings below. He looks down before a smile at what Touko-san would perceive as mere nature gives him away.

"Takashi-kun, Touko-san," Shigeru-san says. One of his hands holds his camera and the other waves toward the wooden shrine, seeming not crafted by long-dead men but sprung up from the forest floor itself. "Let's take a commemorative picture."

Natsume remembers another photo of them, posed in front of their house, Nyanko-sensei included. That alone—that first instance of memorializing he is part of their family—had felt like too much. Here, in a forest none of them know, the feeling is a milder version of itself. Still he feels that he's far too fortunate, but now he also allows himself its acceptance.

Nyanko-sensei squirms out of the backpack and over Natsume's shoulder, not wanting to be excluded. It makes the Fujiwaras laugh, with Touko-san saying what a smart kitty he is. Natsume doesn't miss Nyanko-sensei's brief, pleased smirk.

Without a tripod, Shigeru-san has to ask another visitor to take their photograph. Touko-san is already by Natsume, and so Shigeru-san goes to his opposite side, an echo of their other photograph. Only Nyanko-sensei's pose has changed, perched on his shoulder. He bumps his cheek to Natsume's—endearing to the Fujiwaras, but Natsume knows what Nyanko-sensei can't say: he hears the echo, too.

Natsume reaches up and takes Nyanko-sensei under his limbs, to Nyanko-sensei's surprise, and holds him as in that first photograph. Natsume's smile comes easily.

The shutter goes off, and the photograph is taken. The three of them disperse— Shigeru-san to gather the camera, Touko-san to admire the shrine, Nyanko-sensei to wiggle inside the backpack. They disperse, but that moment they'd stood together remains in perfect pixelation.

"I'll have to get this developed, too," Shigeru-san mumbles to himself, and Natsume's heart twangs at the 'too.' To Natsume, he says, "We should pray to the gods to thank them for our safe trip, shouldn't we?" 

He thinks of the scant youkai about, quiet in their affairs, their unseen better cousins supplicated to instead. "We should."

They join Touko-san at the shrine. They each drop a pocketful of coins into the collection box, but it's her who takes the straw rope in her hands and swings it, the bell clanging, their hands clapping.

Natsume closes his eyes. He doesn't form a prayer in words so much as feeling: gratitude for the good in his life and hope that it will continue. There his thoughts falter. His uncertainty in his future remains, but leaving decisions up to gods doesn't feel proper, even if it would lead to resolution. It's something he must take for himself.

He opens his eyes, stepping back. Shigeru-san soon finishes his own prayer, but Touko-san takes a bit longer.

"You can't ask the gods for too many things," Shigeru-san says, teasing her. 

She pouts. "I wasn't! I was explaining my reasoning for my prayers so they'd grant them..."

Would Natsume's almost-prayer serve to make Touko-san's true? Her and Shigeru-san's happiness are his own.

 _I hope they come true_ , he thinks, taking communal walking sticks for the three of them to hike further up the slope.

"The rock archway we're going to," Shigeru-san starts, "is said to have been made after being kicked in by a demon. But it's good luck, now, and another prayer site. You can get another wish in, Touko-san."

"Maybe I'll wish that my other wishes come true!"

Shigeru-san and Natsume both laugh, earning them a light nudge in the ribs from Touko-san.

The winding concrete they walk on, worn smooth by years of hikers, levels out. The rock archway stands tall, met ponderously and without warning, simply there.

It's larger than Natsume had expected. The individual rocks in it are irregular in size—weathered visibly at some parts, rough as the day they were exposed in others. The entire thing is tinged green with growth, life thriving even on rock. A few people are already there, photographing, praying, or murmuring to their companions. The three of them walk under a sacred straw rope to come beneath the archway itself.

Touko-san gives him another coin. "Make your prayer a good one, Takashi-kun."

He thumbs the coin, about to ask where it goes, but he sees the collection box before he does. 

Despite the shrine's age, it had been in excellent condition. While the visitors he'd seen treated it with respect, certainly the collection fares are funding its upkeep. But its upkeep is as much substantial as it is abstract: the legend of its fortune did not travel on its own. How else would anyone outside this village know of the shrine if someone hadn't traveled to speak of it, so spreading the shrine's history onto thousands of individuals' presents, who tell others, who _then_ tell more people? For generations, it is how the shrine has maintained itself. And for each generation, it starts from someone caring to preserve what they think is worth it.

He looks up. On one of the rock crevices, a fuzzy youkai, robed like a priest, naps. Further down the path opposite where they'd come from, a fox with too many tails hops between the overgrowth. And surely, from somewhere above, the youkai from earlier watches humans traverse his realm.

No one is there to speak for them, these creatures real but unknown. Back home, he's never seen any youkai quite like these, nor had he ever considered such an extravagant tale to be attached to a rock archway. How many other youkai are waiting to be seen? How many other folkloric tales, overlapping with the supernatural more truly than anyone would think, are waiting to be heard? 

How many people can say they are able to be the watcher and listener and enjoy it?

History is made daily, but unless it is acknowledged, unless it is told, it becomes itself. The country is large, ancient with old stories, teeming with some of the creatures taken for myths. People forgotten in the villages where such stories occur hold on to their remnants, these claims to fame that bring curious visitors over to belatedly experience them. But there must be stories waiting to be heard, ready to be shared by the people who've learned them or the youkai who've experienced them. There are things grander than the Book of Friends that should be preserved.

Natsume sets down the coin without a prayer to power it. He doesn't need gods' guidance. Not when he's found it for himself.

"You look happy," Touko-san says to him after they've both made their offerings. "Did you make a good wish?" 

He looks at them both. "Touko-san, Shigeru-san. I know what I want to be."

Their eyes widen.

"I think there are many places in Japan like this shrine. Places with myths," he says. "But their stories haven't been told. I'd like to—" His hands are loose fists. "I think I'd like to be someone who collects those stories so they aren't forgotten when the people who know them are no longer here. Someone should remember." Softer, more to himself, he adds, "Just because something's already happened doesn't mean it should be forgotten."

At his back, he hears Nyanko-sensei huff in smug satisfaction—but it's satisfaction.

"Like a folklorist, then?" Shigeru-san says.

"Yes, I think so."

Touko-san loops an arm through Shigeru-san's. "That fits you well, Takashi-kun," she says, smiling.

Natsume feels warmth on the tips of his ears. Partly it's from having found his answer, and partly from how the Fujiwaras seem to have expected it, but don't gloat about it. _Unlike someone_ , he thinks, reaching back to scratch Nyanko-sensei's ears at his meowing insistence.

He can see why none of them had handed him an answer. It could have falsely become something he convinced himself to do because others had decreed it for him. It had to come from himself for him to know it for truth.

"Do you think you're prepared to take the university entrance exam this year?" Shigeru-san asks him as they make their way down the slope. "With your newfound goal, I'm not sure how the score you need would change. I'm not even sure which schools have programs for folklore studies."

"I'll have to find it out. I think preparing for the exam will take me an extra year…" He grimaces. "Sorry for delaying my studies."

"There's no need to apologize," Shigeru-san says. "We never wanted you to take your life in a direction you were uncomfortable with."

Touko-san nods. "It's never too late to do anything. I think it's more important to be late and happy and sure than early but unhappy or unsure."

From them, they're not platitudes. The Fujiwaras' kindness truly runs that deep.

"Thank you," Natsume says. Perhaps it's meaningless, not the best response, but he feels there's nothing better to say than his gratitude, simplified but no less sincere. The Fujiwaras never had to take him in, nor did they ever have to treat him as their own blood. But they did; they have.

His gratitude is boundless, but still he cannot tell them what he sees from the space between worlds, or how what exists in that space calls to him. Maybe when he's surer of his power and his own place between them. When protecting isn't a wish but an action. But for now, at least sharing his desire to keep tales of youkai spoken will suffice.

* * *

He tells his friends as soon as he can. Like the Fujiwaras, he's met with smiles, with _That makes sense_ and _You'll be good at that_ and, of course, _I'm happy for you_.

What he doesn't get the chance to do is tell the youkai that flit easily into his life. Nyanko-sensei is the one who gossips of it, as Natsume discovers when Hinoe, whom he'd not seen recently, taps at his window shouting her congratulations. The mid-ranks find him in the forest, the first to do so; the rest of the youkai who know his name and are unafraid of him give him their own compliments.

"How much of a loudmouth are you?" Natsume asks Nyanko-sensei, both lounging under a tree. "Everyone already knows, and I'm not responsible for any of that."

Nyanko-sensei humphs. "That Hinoe invited me to a party, attended by many reputable youkai! If they overheard me tell her you finally made up your mind, that's not on me. It's rude to eavesdrop."

Natsume huffs a short laugh. He runs a hand down Nyanko-sensei's thin fur, and Nyanko-sensei, pleased, closes his eyes.

Natsume has grown accepting of his place with the Fujiwaras, and Nyanko-sensei—cantankerous as he may be—is also where he belongs. Talk of his ownership of the Book is infrequent, tepid in his occasional reminders it's the right he's claimed to by being Natsume's otherworldly guardian.

 _We're all protecting what we think is important_ , Natsume thinks. Aloud, he muses, "I wonder if university housing will allow pets."

Nyanko-sensei's ears perk up, and he opens an eye. "They better!" A pause. "Wait, I'm not your pet!"

Natsume laughs again, carefree, at ease with this life he's made and still makes, better every day; a continuous improvement the more he learns about himself and his two worlds. He idly rests his other hand on his book bag, the Book nestled in it among papers left over from high school. Before he knows it, they'll be university papers instead.

He takes out the Book, flipping through the pages. It's thinner than it was when first it was bestowed upon him, and it'll lose even more pages in the future. 

But where its pages crinkle to nothing as their names are returned, the memories of those returns and of the youkai whose stories are implicitly tied to the Book are retained in his heart. A physical loss in exchange for an incorporeal gain. 

He closes the Book but keeps it held up, its name faded and yellowed by time, its edges blunted.

 _Let's keep taking care of each other_ , he thinks, tilting it so the sun glows over its muted green cover. _On to whatever awaits._

The leaves overhead stir, but not from a breeze; the sound is too frantic. Natsume sits up, Nyanko-sensei opens his eyes to cautious slits, and a small youkai falls off a tree's branch, landing in a flutter of leaves at their feet.

"Are you Natsume Reiko-sama?" the youkai asks, uncaring for the twigs stuck to its head. 

Nyanko-sensei sighs. "Never mind, this pipsqueak's no big deal. Same old."

Natsume flicks his ears. To the youkai, he offers a smile. Nyanko-sensei's right, but it's not a bad thing. There is comfort in rituals. "That was my grandmother. I'm Natsume Takashi. Are you here for your name?"

"Yes, I am!"

"Alright." He places the Book on the grass in front of him, and stills his hands a centimeter before they clap together. "Before that," he says, sitting back, "could you tell me how you met my grandmother? And about yourself, too? If you wouldn't mind."

The youkai's eyebrows go up. "You're as odd as Reiko-sama was, aren't you?" it says. "But very well! A being like me has led a life worth telling!"

And Natsume listens.

**Author's Note:**

> the [shrine](http://explore-kumamoto.com/kamishikimi-kumano-imasu-shrine/) in reference


End file.
